Fallout: The Struggle for the Southeast
by Brendin Quaye
Summary: Philip, an ex-NCR Ranger from back West heads toward Atlanta hoping to find some semblance of civilization and to help rebuild another part of the country.
1. Chapter 1: The Way to Florence

I: The Way to Florence

The ceiling tile was cracked overhead. Of all the destruction and devastation apparent in the building, it was amazing that this was the part that the Ranger noticed. Perhaps the wanton disarray all around him was such a commonplace that something like the ceiling crack could stand out for a moment.

As he entered the room he carefully surveyed the landscape while gripping his .38 revolver. He only had three bullets in the cylinder, but no one else knew that. There weren't that many "someone elses" left, but you never knew when you were going to run into some crazed squatter or worse. He kept it ready all the same. He carefully stepped over some debris that had fallen onto the floor. Once, in the forgotten past, this had been a store of some kind – a sporting store, he hoped – but now it was just another wrecked ruin of a bygone age.

He'd entered the town this morning, having come upon it while moving East across what used to be Highway 64 in Tennessee. It had taken him a while to cross the old Tennessee River, now bloated with water since the Old World hydroelectric dam system hadn't been working for decades. He also had to be careful of radioactivity, which was far more dangerous than the amount of water. The ruins of the town were visible against the horizon, but he could tell that it hadn't been a very large town to begin with. It had certainly shrunk by the decade of "recession" that had gripped the nation prior to the Great War and shrunk further by the Great War itself.

Moving along what was left of the roads, he saw mostly the remnants of gas stations and fast food places. Why was it that all these little Southern towns had an oversupply of these fast food places? It boggled his mind that there could have ever been a market for four or five different chains in the same small town, but he had seen it again and again as he moved East. It sometimes made him wonder if the Western world didn't ask for the catastrophic consequences of the Great War. But there was no use in philosophizing something that no one was around to hear, care about, or even understand. Typically, if he did come across a wastelander, they were ignorant of any issues larger than clean water, cooked rat, and perhaps an old can of Treet. Other times, they were barbaric and didn't really do much communicating that didn't involve screaming, wooden bats, or guns.

As he'd passed a burned out husk of a building, he'd caught a glimpse of movement inside. It could have been an animal or a person. He'd fished for his .38 revolver and checked his cylinder before taking another step. Once he was armed, he slowly approached the building. As he'd stepped over the threshold into the old store, he'd noticed the ceiling tiles and tried to take in his surroundings. If anyone was here they weren't making a sound anymore. He moved quietly, as quietly as he could. He'd learned to move quietly in the years following his introduction into the new society of the wasteland. It wasn't a place you wanted to attract attention much.

While looking around, he noticed that nothing was left on the shelves of the store. Sometime he could walk into an abandoned store or gas station and find a few things left – typically stuff that had been considered useless at the time. He had found, in his years wandering across the wasteland, that "useless" was a luxury you didn't get often. Old cans of pre-war food were tastier than the most succulent rat any day. Like anyone with sense, he had a checklist of items he looked for when he found a place, but this place didn't look like it had anything to scavenge.

Just then, as he was looking through a back window at the rubbish beyond, he caught movement again. He spun towards it with his gun ready. He saw a man – or what used to be a man. The man was very old and very skinny. Wrinkles hung off of him in a manner that immediately told the Ranger that this man had not eaten in a while. Right now the man was cowering in front of the Ranger in his gear. Philip wondered, in that moment, what he must look like to a standard wastelander - a creature from the recesses of some pre-war horror film. He had riot armor on with a long duster and what must look to anyone as a gas mask covering his face. To top that off he was brandishing a .38 caliber pistol.

"P, p, please, don't hurt me." The old man stammered.

Philip slowly and carefully slid his handgun back into his holster inside the duster, trying to indicate he had no intentions of harm to the old man. He had made the determination pretty quickly that the old man could not be a threat to him.

"I'm not going to hurt you old timer." He said as he began to slowly remove the face mask.

The man seemed unsure and didn't really relax much. Philip pulled the mask away and left it hanging by the straps, much like old fighter pilot masks would. Once his human face was revealed, the man's tensed posture slowly relaxed. Once Philip saw that the man wasn't going to pull it together and calm down, he decided to rummage around a bit.

"Is there anything left in this place?" He asked.

No answer.

"How long have you been here, old timer?" He asked again as he moved some empty boxes around on an old store shelf.

Still, he got no answer. He turned back around to the man, who was still somewhat cowering in the corner where he found him.

"My name's Philip. What's yours?"

The man looked at him with scared eyes, almost as if he were more scared of the Ranger now than he had been when the mask obscured the human face. Philip decided to take a different approach. He slowly moved his pack around from off his back and opened it up. He didn't have much food, hence the trip into the town, but he felt he might get more information out of the old man if he offered a little something useful other than the knowledge that he wasn't some monster. He found a small tin of beans, one of the little seven ounce cans with the pull-top and pulled it out. He popped open the top and carefully set the open can on the floor near the man.

"There. It looks like you haven't eaten in a while. I know it's not much, but maybe it will help some. I'm not going to hurt you, just looking for some information about this place."

The reaction was slow at first, but sped along faster than he could have imagined. The man gingerly reached out for the can and pulled it to himself. He eyed it suspiciously before sticking his bony fingers in and pulling out a bit of beans. He scooped them into his mouth and then began devouring the whole can. Once complete, he didn't look quite as scared anymore. Philip waited for him to be done. While the man ate, he sat down on an old crate nearby.

"Th, th, thank you, mister." The old man said.

"Don't mention it." Philip responded.

"Haven't eaten in a week." The old man stammered. "Not real food anyway. Ate a rat day 'fore yesterdy. Didn't count as real food. Fur is awful for a man to eat."

Philip took this to mean that the old man had eaten his rat raw, not cooking it. He shuddered at that thought – but food was food. Better than starving. While he watched the man eat, he reached into a pocket on the inside of his jacket and pulled out an old packet of cigarettes. He'd found so many packs of cigarettes during his travels across the wasteland that he'd taken to smoking just to do his part in getting rid of the things. Eventually, as with anything, he'd found he liked the simple process of drawing the fire and tobacco through the paper cylinder and into his lungs. The heat both warmed and burned and a soothing feeling spread across him. He never got used to the taste, which he was only partly convinced was affected at all by the years of neglect and radiation.

After a few minutes – there weren't that many beans in the can – the man set the empty container down and looked at the Ranger. Philip held his hands in an empty shrug to indicate he didn't have anything else for the man. Nevertheless, the man's demeanor had improved significantly. Philip just hoped his gamble would pay off with information, as he didn't have cans of beans to just give away like that.

" You alone here, old timer?" Philip asked after a moment of silence.

"Pretty much." The man said. "There's a few kids on the other side of town, but they pretty much leave me alone if I don't wander over their way."

"I don't suppose there is anything worth having on this side of town then. If there were, I imagine they wouldn't leave you as alone, huh?"

"Not much here."

"How many of them are over there?" Philip asked, hoping there weren't many and they were really kids.

"About seven of them, I think. Least there was when I last saw 'em."

Philip thought that over. He didn't know the area and seriously doubted this old man could give him enough information to go on. He needed supplies terribly, though. He was down to a few rounds in his .38. He had a good knife and a bow with arrows, but nothing to beat a gun. He'd been hoping to find a sporting goods store in the town that wasn't terribly ransacked or burned out, but he was starting to think that this was a pipe dream. Still, if he didn't try, who knew how long it would be before he came across anything like civilization to trade with. He felt he should give it a try anyway.

"What kind of supplies are on the other side of town?" He asked.

The man just kind of looked at him like he wasn't sure what Philip had said.

"Any stores left?" Philip asked again.

At this the man brightened just a little and said, "There is old Bagger to the south a little. He has stuff and sells it some. I ain't got nothin' to trade for it though, so I never go."

"Old Bagger, huh?" Philip said. "How far?"

"Not far." The old man said. "There's one of them old self-storage places down the way a bit. He's set up there. Kinda on the way to Florence, er, a, what used to be Florence anyway."

"I see." Philip said.

He mulled it over in his head for a bit. This old Bagger must have a decent set up or else the kids the old man had mentioned would have taken him out a while back. It sounded like it was worth a shot anyway. He said thanks to the old man and then began to leave the storefront.


	2. Chapter 2: Trouble on the Way

II: Trouble on the Way

It didn't take long to figure out what road the old man had meant, as the only other road going south had a crater in it the size of a small building with the remains of a large aircraft sunk in it. This would have taken a while to get around. Instead, Philip turned a little on a cross-street and headed to a parallel road, marked Highway 69. The way was much more passable here, though there were several old vehicles blocking a straight walk.

As he walked, he passed several reminders of both the destruction of war and the world that was left behind. It was a curious mix that he'd never quite gotten a handle on as he'd traveled across the wasteland. He, and every other living being, now lived in some bizarre mixture of the old world and a new world. Walking across the wasteland gave a man time to think, if he cared to.

As the Ranger made his way around the remains of a tractor trailer, he heard the soft crackle of a footstep nearby. He froze instantly. While the helmet and mask provided protection that Philip dared not go without for long, they decreased his overall visibility. He rarely got into situation where this was an issue, but they did happen. He hoped now wasn't one of those times.

The soft crackle was repeated a few times and Philip slowly withdrew his revolver and stepped forward. He peeked around the edge of the truck and saw a dog several feet away. It was a thin shell of a dog, really, but in Philip's experience that made them worse. Dogs could get hungry and extremely violent when hungry. Philip tried to hold still so the dog would wander off.

As he settled back into a waiting position he heard his own crackle as his feet came down on a stick on the pavement. He could immediately hear that he had alerted the dog to his presence. The animal stopped short and turned around. Philip realized that he really only had one option, even though he wanted to conserve as much of his limited ammunition as he could. He considered getting his knife out, but frankly he didn't want to get close enough to the animal to use the knife. The gun carried risk, but less risk than the knife. Philip readied himself for a quick shot and hoped he was as accurate as he needed to be.

He spun around the edge of the truck and leveled his revolver at the dog. But the dog wasn't there anymore. Philip looked to his right and left for the animal and only saw it out of the corner of his eye as it leapt from the side of the overturned truck to attack. Philip turned quickly and pulled the trigger. The report echoed in his ears, despite the mask and helmet, but it was to no avail. His aim had been poor owing to the surprise. The angry canine landed on him and knocked him off his feet. The handgun fell from his hand and skidded across the pavement. It now lay about three feet from him and there was a large angry dog on top of him and biting wildly. Fortunately, his clothing – which a moment ago he had thought better of for restricting his vision – protected his face and arms from the bites of the dog.

Nevertheless, the struggle with the dog was fierce. He grabbed the dog's jaw with one gloved hand and held it by the throat to try to keep its mouth away from him. The dog growled fiercely at this maneuver but quickly forgot its concern as Philip's other arm rocketed into its side and sent it reeling. Philip rolled and came to a kneeling position just as the dog regained its footing and made a lunge at the Ranger. Philip had just enough time to pull the knife from his belt and swipe at the dog.

He missed, and the dog bit into his canvas duster sleeve. Even though the canvas was too thick to bite through, the teeth dug into Philip's arm and hurt severely. Philip cried out and shoved with the arm the dog had its teeth on, trying to distance himself from the savage creature. The dog held on tight and bit down even harder. Philip felt the teeth dig into his skin, even cutting through the canvas of the sleeve. With his free arm he pounded on the beast's head and body, trying to get traction and get to a standing position.

Even though the dog maintained its iron grip on Philip's arm, he was able to get to his knees and roll toward the dog, pushing it into the metal wheel of a nearby truck. Once against the vehicle, Philip put his full force against the animal and finally caused it to yelp, releasing the grip on his arm. Philip wasted no time, lashing out with a kick to the dog's face that sent it reeling.

He turned quickly, scanning the area for his dropped gun. Seeing it under the edge of an old Toyota, he made a scramble for it. His arm screamed in pain as he grasped for the gun and spun around to face his attacker again. By the time he had the gun; the dog had regained its composure as well and was prepared to make another charge. Philip leveled the revolver with a hand that was in great pain and fired a round at the beast. He missed again! The dog was no more than five feet away when Philip fired his final round out of his .38 S&M K38 revolver.

The shot struck the dog just behind the shoulder. At that range, the bullet exited the other side of the animal in a spray of blood and tissue. The dog dropped almost instantly. It whimpered a few times before choking on its own blood and dying.

Once Philip felt confident the animal wasn't going to move again, he fell back down onto the pavement and sighed. He took the empty revolver from his right hand and set it down beside him. He winced in pain as he examined his sleeve. The dog's bite marks could be clearly seen on his own forearm. There were some serious tears in the canvas and he could see blood. He now needed the trader more than ever. He was now completely out of ammunition, he would need medicine (he had some basic first aid materials, but no antibiotics). As he positioned himself for treating his arm, he realized that sometime during the brawl with the canine, he had broken his bow and the few arrows he had. These would now be useless as well.

Philip wanted to get his arm taken care of as quickly as he could. He didn't think taking his gear off out in the middle of the road would be prudent, so he scanned the nearby area for a house or building. One side of the street had once been used for storage of city electrical components – transformers, insulators, and even the long wooden poles. There were a few metal buildings on the lot, but nothing Philip thought would provide him the kind of location he wanted to treat his wounds. On the other side of the street, however, were the remains of a small apartment community. It was just a few buildings and none of them were more than two stories high. The few buildings he could see looked to be mostly intact.

"Might as well." Philip said, exasperated. "Not going to do my any good sitting here."

Philip stood up, wincing at the pain in his arm as he got to his feet. He moved around the corpse of the dog. He felt bad about it, in a way. The dog was really only doing what he was doing – surviving. It was what anyone still around was forced to do. If you didn't do that, you died! Obviously some people and animals played the survival game better than others. This time Philip had won. What about next time? He shook his head at the thought and pushed it back in his mind. It was not something one wanted to dwell on. It wasn't healthy.

He walked around the edge of the Toyota from which he'd pulled his gun and made his way across the street and towards the entrance to the apartment complex. There was still part of a sign announcing that he was at Parkside Apartments. The first building he came to was a single story structure that looked to be partially intact. Wooden boards were over the windows and the front door, indicating someone had used it since the war.

He wanted to be cautious so he walked around the backside of the building as well. Here he found more boarded up windows, but a back door had been broken through at some point. Whoever had used it had either abandoned it or been forced to abandon it. Before entering, Philip finished his circuit of the exterior of the building. He didn't want any surprises as he was going to be more vulnerable while he tended to his arm. The rest of the building was as secure as it could be, so Philip determined it would work as a shelter. The sky was getting darker too, and it was getting late in the day. Philip figured he would probably need to stay the night.

First his arm, though.

He went back to the broken door and stepped into the building. It was dark inside with all the windows boarded up. He stepped over a large desk that had once been used to barricade the door and he could see the remains of the wooden beams used to block the door as well. Whoever had tried to stay here had made the back door – the one Philip was now using – their point of entry. They had boarded everything else up from both inside and outside, while the back door was only closed off from the inside.

Once past the debris, he took a look around the building. It was divided into only about four rooms. The main room, which he was standing in, was the largest. Three other rooms were set to the side. Two of them had large openings for windows facing the interior of the building and door frames for doors. The room between these had been a lavatory at some point.

Philip felt the need to secure the building, but wasn't sure he could before he dealt with his arm. He weighed the options and decided even if it caused more pain, it was best to do some minor repairs to the back door before treating his wound. He turned back to the open doorway behind him and looked at the desk. While it had been shoved out of the way, it was still sound. It would work for his purposes as well.

He grimaced some when he had to use his injured arm to lift the desk in place. He set it partially into the doorway, trying to cover as much of the entry as he could with the desk. Once in place he found some chairs around the room and shoved them into the open spaces. He stepped back once complete and eyed his work. It wouldn't hold for long, but it would give him some pretty good warning that someone was coming.

Now it was time to do something about his arm.

He set his backpack down in the floor near the bathroom entry. He did have the good fortune of finding a mostly intact mirror in the room. However, with only fading sunlight filtered through boarded-up windows, it might not do him much good. Once he had his pack down, he noticed to long wires coming from the light above the mirror and followed them down to a black box on the floor. Philip immediately recognized the set-up. Above the mirror was an old fluorescent tube in its ballast. The connecting wires, which would have gone into the wall in the old world, were pulled out and dangling to the floor. At the ends of each wire was a small clip. On the floor was an old car battery. He wondered if it would still work as he connected the two wires to the battery.

Sure enough, the light bulb flickered to life and glowed in the dark like a miniature bar of sunlight. Philip stood amazed. He'd not had the luxury of electricity many times since leaving the comforts of the Mojave district. One place he'd stayed in the ruins of Norman, near Oklahoma City, had possessed a working generator running off who knew what cobbled together electrical rubbish. It had been worth the ridiculous amount of caps it cost to get a hot shower. But that had been a long time ago, before a hungry dog had tried to eat his arm.

Philip worked his duster off, cringing from the pain. Once the duster was of, he had to work his riot gear off as well, which was easier as it was mostly the torso piece and no arm parts. Once he had those off, he looked at the sleeve of his shirt. It was ripped in several places and he could see the teeth marks and blood soaking into the fabric of the clothing. Philip slowly pulled the shirt sleeve up so he could get to the wounds underneath.

The dog's teeth had ripped open his flesh on his right forearm. He was bleeding pretty badly and would need stitches for the wound to heal properly. He reached back into his pack, rummaged around and pulled out a small leather pouch. He unwrapped the package and pulled out a small emergency suture kit, some wound antiseptic wash and a roll of three inch bandage for dressing his wound. Setting this aside, he embarked on the painful task of cleaning, suturing, and dressing his arm.

It took a little while (especially one-handed), but eventually Philip had his arm as clean as he could get it and bandaged up. It didn't feel much better, even though he'd taken a Med-X shot. He only had one hypodermic of Med-X, so he had limited himself to a quarter-dose. He wanted to get his hands on some antibiotics as he had no clue what germs the dog had been carrying. He'd have to wait at least until morning before he moved on in search of Old Bagger. He hoped it would be worth his time.

After he had made some more permanent repairs to the rear door of the building, he settled in for the night. As he sat on the floor against the wall, he reached into his bag and pulled out the small transceiver he'd been carrying with him since he left the Mojave months ago. He set it on the ground beside him and twisted the dial to turn it on. As the unit came to life he began to hear the signal he'd initially picked up at the listening post in Boulder City. As he'd moved East the signal grew stronger and was now pretty clear. As he listened to the signal and the message it broadcast, the battery in the bathroom gave up and the fluorescent light flickered out. Philip paid it no mind. He listened contentedly to the message and drifted off to sleep.

_Atlanta Station One_

_Poseidon Project underway, need help_

_Power levels high_

_Please come_

8


	3. Chapter 3: Morning Light

III. Morning Light

_Philip stood in the center of the tent at attention, waiting for the briefing to begin. Captain Sorensen entered through the flap and strode up to Philip. Philip immediately offered the salute that was required. Captain Sorensen returned the salute and told Philip he could stand at ease, which meant Philip could relax his frame somewhat. The man turned to a table set up near the edge of the tent and studied some papers there. He looked up after a few minutes and spoke. _

"_So you want to go chasing this signal, huh?"_

"_Yes sir." Philip had responded. _

"_We don't know anything about that region of the country. We have no intelligence there at all. There is no way to know what you would be walking into."_

"_I'm aware of the risks, sir."_

"_I doubt you are." Captain Sorensen had said. "You are a young officer looking to make a name for yourself and you think this is the way to make it happen. You'll get yourself killed is all."_

"_With all due respect, sir, I have no intentions of 'making a name for myself.' I simply want to serve the NCR and provide assistance in the cultivation of a new civilization in place of this devastation."_

"_Idealistic. I'll give you that." Sorensen had muttered. _

"_Maybe so. Look. I understand if you don't want to risk anyone else, but let me go, please."_

"_Why would I even risk letting you go? It is s-u-i-c-i-d-e. Do you hear me?"_

"_Then you leave me no choice. I hereby resign my commission in the New California Republic effectively immediately."_

_A look of shock had run across Captain Sorensen's face at this. "No look here, son…"_

_Philip had immediately dropped out of even the semblance of military decorum and was now standing as a regular citizen would, no longer in the military designation, at ease. _

"_You left me no choice. I am going to go check this signal out. It could be something amazing."_

"_But it is halfway across the country. We don't know how long the thing has been going or if who sent it is even still there."_

"_We just picked it up, and we've been monitoring those frequencies for months. I think they just began broadcasting."_

"_You are going to get yourself killed." Sorensen had said._

When he woke up in the morning his own batteries had failed and the transceiver was no longer operational. He picked up the small device and turned the knob to the off position and set it back inside his open pack nearby. He'd slept sitting up, which did not feel good on his back. _I'll feel that all day long_, Philip thought. The easy answer was a little shot of Med-X, but Philip knew first-hand how addictive those chems were – he'd seen many a man and woman completely destroy themselves due to a chem addiction, so he only used them in emergencies. Besides, he only had a couple of the hypodermic needles in his trauma pack, and he had no idea if those kind of chems would be available where he was headed, so he felt he needed to conserve his supplies as much as possible. He hadn't seen a traveling merchant or any other kind of merchant since he'd left the Plains Commonwealth. In fact, the old man in the burned out store had been the first sane face he'd seen in weeks.

He'd dealt with Raiders and such, but they were never friendly to talk to. _I just can't imagine what makes a man turn so psychotic_, he thought. However, he knew the answer to this query before he ever asked it. He'd witnessed it over and over again in the Mojave and the NCR before that. The reality was men didn't _turn_ psychotic like that. Civilization helped them repress the psychotic tendencies that were always there. The promise of civilization was what drew him to the NCR in the first place. As a Ranger he was doing his part in restoring order to the wasteland. As a Ranger, he had helped to bring order to the Mojave wasteland and bring the Hoover Dam under the control of the NCR. He'd fought against Caesar's Legion and the other smaller factions in the Mojave and helped to create something of the old world there. Running water, electricity, agriculture, and a free flow of trade goods from the NCR through to New Vegas in the Mojave; all of these things had been brought back into existence because of the NCR.

But here! As he looked around the small building he'd spent the night in, he wondered if any civilization existed in this part of the world at all. Surely there had to be those, like the NCR, attempting to set up a working government and provide aid to the wasteland. He was convinced that was what the signal was about. Someone was doing something. _ I can't believe the whole world is as broken as what I see. The NCR has worked in the West. The Brotherhood of Steel is putting the Capital Wasteland back together. There has to be someone doing something in the Southeast. That has to be the reason for the signal and the call for help. _

Philip stood up and checked the bandage on his arm. He could see blood seeping through the gauze, but it was in pretty good shape – all things considered. He considered redressing it, but decided if he got what he wanted from this Old Bagger character, he'd just have to do it again. He might as well wait. He put his riot armor back on and his duster as well. He made sure all his supplies were in order and then pulled a tin of beans out of his pack. He opened it carefully and scooped out the contents for a hurried breakfast.

Once he was done, he added the empty can to the debris in the floor and unbarred the door. As he stepped into the morning light he considered the stories he'd heard about the world of artificial lighting. He had never known a world where you didn't rise with the sun, but some told stories of sleeping past sunrise and staying up into the night watching stories on screens. _We forgot the patterns of life and called it strength. We allowed ourselves to be lulled into a false sense of security by technological domination. _

Once he was out in the daylight again he returned to the road where he'd fought the dog the previous day and resumed his trek across to the southern road the old man had told him about. It didn't take long to reach it. Standing at the intersection of the roads he could clearly see the storage yard where the old man had told him Old Bagger ran his business.

It was a structure of three buildings full of doors. A large fence ran around the entire complex – or as much of it as Philip could see – and had been reinforced by bits of sheet metal and even old vehicle frames. Looking to the left, he could see the remnants of a car lot – a location where the old world had once sold vehicles to ready consumers. The front of the trading station had a sign that looked like it had been pieced together from other, less appropriate signs. It read "Depot Supply – Buy Here, Pay Here." The word Depot was in large block-like red letters, while the word Supply was in a scripted blue type against a white background. The phrase, "buy here, pay here" was made of several individual letters in a slotted black frame.

There was a small opening near the road, but no guard standing there. Philip imagined there was someone standing watch behind the fence, though he couldn't see them. _I'd have someone there anyway, _he thought. _Well, there's no use in waiting, _Philip thought. He stepped forward into the street and approached the metal-clad fence.

While he was still several feet from the gate a ragged voice rang out from behind the fence.

"That's far enough, sonny."

"I've come to trade." Philip called out.

"That so?" The voice responded.

"Yes."

"You have caps, I s'ppose." The voice called through the fence.

"I do." Philip said rather curtly.

"Good! There's a box by the gate, place all your weapons in the box."

Philip considered this for a moment. It was not uncommon for this kind of request to be made. He knew several places in New Vegas that had required this kind of action. It seemed he wasn't going to get anywhere unless he complied. _Besides, _he thought, _it's not like I have ammunition for my gun anyway._

"I just have this one gun. I'm putting it in." Philip called as he set his .38 revolver in the box.

He heard a scraping sound as a large metal rod was drawn from inside the fence and the gate began to swing open. Once it was mostly open, Philip took a cautious step towards the gate.

"Hold y'er horses." The man inside said. "Want to have a look at ya first."

Philip stood still while a man who looked to be in his sixties stepped from inside the fence with a shotgun in his hands, aimed at Philip. The man looked him up and down and then spoke.

"Take yer mask off. Don't trust a man I can't see his face. And open up yer coat. Want to make sure ya ain't hidin' more guns in there."

Philip slowly – so as not to alarm the man – opened the sides of his duster wide so the man – who he presumed to be Old Bagger – could see that there were no hidden guns. He then gently undid the clasps and removed his face mask and helmet. Philip blinked as the daylight hit his eyes but stood firm and waited for the old man to finish his inspection. This, too, was pretty standard. Philip had to admit it had to be a hard lot for traders to stay safe. People often walked in with their own guns and without the benefit of an organized government or court of authority, a man could shoot another over asking too much for a shot of Jet.

"That'll do." The old man said. "What you lookin' for?"

"I need some ammunition, if you have it, and some medicine. Had a run in with a dog on the road" Philip said gesturing back the way he came. "Want to make sure it doesn't get infected."

"Dog, huh?" The old man said, off-handedly. "You might get more than infection from dogs, son."

"What do you mean?" Philip inquired.

"Don't know where you're from, but dogs around here get the foaming mouth sometimes. Give it to people they bit too." The old man said. "Where are you from anyways? Don't see clothing like this around here."

"I've come from back west…out of the Plains Commonwealth." Philip said. He didn't feel like it would be good to completely disclose his origins.

"I see." The old man said, not entirely convinced. "Seen some folks from that way before. They didn't wear this stuff." He fingered the fringe of Philip's duster as he said this.

"Last real settlement I was in was Norman, outside of OK City." Philip offered. I've been on the road a long time, headed east. Got business there." He said trying to get the man back on track.

Philip wasn't really enjoying the way the man was looking at his gear. He was beginning to suspect that the man was more interested in his riot gear and duster than the caps he had in his pack for trading. This was confirmed a moment later when the old man spoke.

"I don't know that I've got anything you'd want, but I can see you've got something that would be mighty beneficial to me."

"Look, I just need some medicine and ammunition." Philip said, getting exasperated. "If you have anything, I have caps to purchase. If not…I'll be on my way."

"Why sure I have stuff. But I think this here gear is worth more than your caps right now. Folks 'round here would love to have fancy gear like this."

"My gear is not for sale!" Philip stated adamantly.

"Oh, who said anything about _buying_ it?" The old man said.

Philip was unable to process this intelligibly. At almost the exact moment the man said "buying," as if on cue, two men with rifles came from around one of the buildings.


	4. Chapter 4: A Turn of Events

IV: A Turn of Events

Philip recognized the complexity of the situation as soon as the two other men appeared from around the edge of one of the storage buildings. He had no gun – having put it in the box on the other side of the gate – and it would not have helped anyway since he was out of ammunition. His bow had broken during the encounter with the dog the other day. Again, this would not have been a good option with the men being armed, but a weapon was better than no weapon. He did have his knife, though it was concealed and would be problematic to get quickly. He never felt it was imperative to put _all _his weapons into those boxes. Nobody ever wants to be completely defenseless.

He sensed the only opportunity was to outsmart Old Bagger and his associates. He raised his hands in a surrendering gesture and waited on them to approach. He would have to time it perfectly to get any leverage on them at all. Fortunately, they appeared to be only ones armed. _They will come over and let their guard down just a bit, _he thought. _As long as Old Bagger doesn't have a weapon, I will have a chance._

"That's a good boy." Old bagger said as Philip waited patiently for the two newcomers to come close. "Good stuff is hard to come by. Lots of folks 'round here just wear old tires and bit 'o metal. This stuff will make me rich."

Philip said nothing as the men approached. When they were near, one of them shifted his rifle, counting on the fact that Philip had been compliant up to this point and was obviously outnumbered. He wouldn't do anything stupid. The man who reached Philip first began to remove his backpack. Philip waited patiently while they slid it off and dumped the contents onto the ground in front of Old Bagger.

"What you got here?" The old man questioned.

"What should we do with him, boss?" One of the men – the one with a rifle still trained on Philip - said. It was the first time Philip had heard his voice and it sounded thick and sluggish.

"Leave him be. We need him to tell us what some of this is." Old Bagger remarked as he fingered the items from Philips backpack.

With the backpack empty, Mr. I Don't Need My Rifle Anymore threw it on the ground. The one with his rifle out took his gaze off of Philip for a moment to peer at the contents of the bag. Philip chose that moment to make his move.

He struck out at the rifle and pulled it from the man's hands and flipped it, hoping beyond hope that these fellows were too stupid to keep the safety on and it was ready to fire. It looked like a bolt action hunting rifle of some kind and likely took .32 caliber rounds or possibly. 308. No sooner than it was in his hands he shifted position and pulled the trigger on the weapon. He had adjusted the target from the man he had taken the gun from to the one still armed. Mr. I Don't Need My Rifle Anymore caught the round from the rifle in the back of his head, completely unaware that anything out of the ordinary had even taken place.

Rather than attempt to reload, he swung it around and caught the other man on the side of his head with the, still warm, barrel of the gun. The metal made contact with his jaw and snapped his head sideways. Philip followed this with an immediate uppercut to the same jaw, rocking his head back. The man went down quickly, but likely would not stay down. Philip kicked out with his right boot and made contact just under the chest cavity. Even if the man still had use of his senses, his lungs would now be on fire as the boot struck deep into his solar plexus.

Philip now corrected his handle on the rifle and slid the bolt to chamber another round. He brought the gun up and fired at the old man who now looked less than pleased with the sudden change of events. The round struck the old man in the shoulder, which exploded as the round passed through it. The man spun around and fell to the ground gripping his shoulder and screaming in pain.

"Please don't kill me!" The old man sobbed. "I wasn't gonna actually take nothing."

Philip slid the bolt one more time to chamber another round. Though it was not normally in his nature to attack someone who was not armed, his mind wandered back to the incident with the dog the day before and he reflected briefly on the world he was in. Sadly, there was really no room in the world anymore for mercy or taking chances. If he let Old bagger live, the likelihood of his reforming and becoming a better man were pretty slim. It was more likely that the man would send others to find him as payback. It had happened before.

Philip pulled the trigger. Old Bagger fell dead and the pleading stopped.

The Ranger then turned to the one person he hadn't killed and found him still knocked out. He stooped down to Mr. I Don't Need My Rifle Anymore and ripped some fabric from his clothes in a thin strip. He then tied the other man's hands behind him and set him up against the inside of the fence. He wouldd come to eventually. Philip would ask him some questions and maybe give him a chance to rethink his life. Maybe the way he answered the questions would determine how Philip acted at that point. He thought carefully about this looking at Old Bagger's dead body.

Philip set about collecting his belongings off the ground. Luckily, they had not had any time to mess with any of it. Once he had everything collected, he picked his pack up off the ground. In their haste to empty its contents, they had ripped a portion of it. It would no longer hold his belongings. _Well, I just hope Old Bagger has something that makes this whole thing worth it,_ Philip thought.

He grabbed his empty .38 revolver from the box outside and pulled the fence gate closed. He did not chain it, as he did not have the key to the rusty padlock on the gate and did not feel like searching Old Bagger for this piece of equipment. Only then did Philip examine the rifle. It was a .308 caliber hunting rifle, as he suspected. It had a smooth wooden stock with a weathered steel receiver and barrel. It was a decent rifle. Philip decided to keep it. If Old Bagger didn't have any .38 rounds, surely he would have extra ammunition for the pieces his own men carried.

_Well, now,_ he thought, _I guess I get to take my pick of what is here, then. _He headed down the first row of storage structures. The first several were open and he collected a variety of choice items in each of them. He found a dark colored heavy canvas messenger bag to replace his pack. He found quite a bit of ammunition for his new .308 rifle but nothing for the .38 revolver. There was plenty of 10mm caliber ammunition and he found a couple of working N99 handguns. _Wish I could find something with a higher caliber since it's Christmas and all around here_, he thought. He set his old, empty .38 revolver down and took the N99 instead. He took a couple of boxes of each of the ammunitions he found, wishing he could carry more. Weight was a double-edged sword though, as any traveler of the wasteland could vouch. The more stuff you carried, the more prepared you were. However, with a lot of weight, you were necessarily slowed as well. Traveling and moving more slowly could easily mean the difference between living and dying out in the wasteland.

Philip left one pod and entered another where he found shelves of canned goods. He grabbed several cans of various things. He preferred to kill and eat live food, but would eat from the can when necessary, as he had done last night. In either case, you ran the risk of a certain amount of radiation. The canned foods were always out of date, of course, but experience had taught him that most of them had been made with so many preservatives that they were still relatively edible even now. He shoved several cans of Cram and Pork n' Beans into his new bag.

The next storage section he went into had armor and clothing in it. He considered some of the items, but decided that nothing he could find out here in the wastes was better than his NCR issued gear. He thought again how fortunate he was that Captain Sorensen had allowed him to keep his gear even after his unceremonious resignation of his commission. _Good guy, Sorensen,_ he thought. _I hope he's wrong about what I came to find out here though._

The next several were locked. He shot one lock, but found nothing but pre-war garbage inside. The condition of the locked storage pods gave him the distinct impression that Old Bagger had only sold out of the open containers. While he had scored pretty big on the resupply of ammunition and weaponry, he was still very much in need of medicine. He had been thinking of a variety of diseases and infections he could get from the dog bite, but the foaming mouth had not crossed him mind until Old Bagger mentioned it. Now it was the most dominant thought there.

Moving systematically through the storage rooms, he eventually found the spot that Old Bagger and his associates had called home. They had turned the main office into a private residence. Inside he found Bagger's private stash of some of his best gear. In a cabinet he found some more food; but he had as much as he wanted to carry already so he left it there. Underneath a bed he found an old military ammunition locker with some .44 caliber rounds. This encouraged him to look more diligently for the gun that likely went with the bullets. He opened several containers to no avail and then finally thought to look under the mattress. Bingo! Philip pulled out a weathered, but well-maintained .44 revolver from under the mattress. It even fit in the holster he kept his .38 in.

As he was leaving the residential side of the Supply Depot, he noticed a footlocker half-hidden in another room. He stopped to investigate. It was locked, but rather than shoot the lock off and risk damaging the contents, he decided to attempt to pick the lock. A little jiggling with a bobby pin and a screwdriver he kept for such purposes and the lock popped open revealing the contents of the footlocker.

It was full of Stimpacks, Med-X hypodermics, and bottles of various sizes containing anything from Aspirin to a multitude of antibiotics. Some packages of sterile hypodermic needles filled a small section of the footlocker. Along with these, Philip came across a variety of vials of medical fluids. He had no idea what to take. It could all be so useful, but space was limited.

He cursed himself quietly for not taking the additional medical training that the NCR offered all its officers. At the time his attitude had been dismissive. Thinking he would always be in a company with a medical officer, he had not bothered to learn more than rudimentary First Aid and survival skills. How he wished now that he could go back and learn more. People never know what they are going to be faced with. The NCR somewhat understood this. They sought to provide a broad spectrum of training for those that enlisted with the goal of making them able to learn more as they needed it rather than making them experts in anything, save firearms.

Rather than make a hasty choice, Philip closed the footlocker after taking a small bottle to stave off infection in his arm – which was itching from the swelling under the bandages he had dressed it in. He needed to redo the dressings. He looked outside and found that the sun was getting pretty low in the sky. He decided he would stay the night in the residence of the Supply Depot and then be on his way in the morning. He considered his tied-up captive out by the gate and decided he could be an early warning siren if trouble came knocking during the night. If he was alive in the morning, they could chat.


	5. Chapter 5: On the Road Again

V. On the Road Again

Philip stayed up fairly late checking through other storage compartments for additional supplies and then redressing his wounded arm. When he finally retired, he could hear Mr. Tied to the Fence coming around. Philip decided to ignore him, even when he began asking if anyone was around rather loudly. He only did that a time or two before he heard something coming through the fence. Mr. Tied to the Fence's questions became shrieks of terror. Philip stepped out of the building with a shotgun he had found among the weapons kept around the place. He did not really like carrying them, but if he was going to have to kill something, he would rather use a weapon he didn't care about to something he wanted to conserve ammunition in.

He stepped out onto the porch of the building in time to see a giant ant tearing Mr. Tied to the Fence's head off amid the screams by the latter. The noise quieted down soon enough. Philip waited until the creature began scrambling his way before blowing the ant's head off with the shotgun. _I hate those ants. They are just creepy. _After the corpse finished twitching, he took his knife and cut some ant meat off the overgrown insect for dinner. _They do make good eating though, _he thought, certainly c_an't deny that_. He repaired the fence as best he could and gone back inside. A portable stove running off of some canned fuel and a pilot light was set up in a kitchen area of the building. He found an iron skillet and cooked the ant meat.

Once he was done eating, he retired for the night. He chose to sleep sitting up rather than on the mattress. _Never can get over the feeling that I'm sleeping in someone else's bed_, he thought. He had only had two beds that were _his_ in his life. He had once had the bed in the Vault 121 where he had grown up. He had also had the bed during basic training for the NCR near Shady Sands. He had slept in various cots and bed during his deployments across the Republic and into the Mojave Wasteland, but never felt comfortable sleeping in an actual bed. For one thing, he always felt it was a little morbid to sleep in the old beds because no one made them anymore. This was a bed that someone dead had slept in before. It was a little too much for him. He just tended to not lie down if possible.

The morning sun settled on his face like a beam of light spread thin but still bright. He blinked awake and sat up a little more. He set his new 10mm N99 down after doing a cursory inspection of the room and was sure no one had slipped in and was waiting for him to move. He felt a little silly for being overly cautious sometimes, but it only took one time for a man to end up dead – as Mr. Tied to the Fence outside could readily attest – sort of.

He stood up and stretched, hearing the bones in his neck and shoulders creak and crack like sticks underfoot. He didn't want to hang around much longer as he wanted to put a good distance between himself and the Supply Depot. _Who knows,_ he thought, _Old Bagger may have other goons around the area that just weren't here yesterday. That would be a very awkward conversation. _Philip had saved some ant meat from last night's dinner and ate it cold now with some purified water he had found in the residence. He had packed a few bottles of that away as well. He had finally made some choices among the footlocker of medical supplies. He could not be sure, owing to his lack of medical expertise, but he had tried to get things that seemed to have broad applications. To that end, he had specifically left the Polio vaccine in the footlocker, not anticipating any real application for it in his future.

After having gathered, repackaged, and donned all his supplies, Philip pulled the corpse of Mr. Tied to the Fence away from the gate and slid it open. He stepped out onto the road and headed south, toward the town the old man he had met on first crossing the river had called Florence.

It took him two days to reach the remains of Florence. He had spent the night in a burned out farmhouse in a place that once was called Murphy Crossroads. It was a quiet walk and a quiet night. After the business with Old Bagger, Philip was satisfied with some peace and quiet. He had had relatively few troubles on his way east at all. Barring the incidents in Colorado City and Norman, he had met very few people and even fewer animals during the majority of his trek. He wondered about this fact sometimes, especially when he was – as he was now – traveling unhindered by the wasteland. He surmised that vaults had been constructed in or near relatively high population centers in the Old World, which accounted for a plethora of vaults in the California regions as well as, he had heard, several on the old Eastern Seaboard. The Capital Wasteland - and even old Boston - had several vaults. Until recently, no one had any reason to expect vaults in the Southeast. But information about the Old World was scant anymore. It was very difficult to put together much of a narrative about anything unless you knew someone high up in the Brotherhood. They seemed to have very reliable records, but were not much for sharing.

If there were vaults in the southeast, it seemed reasonable that people would have exited them and begun some process of civilization. He considered that in the absence of vaults some may have traveled from the northeast to accomplish the same objective. He was walking proof that you could travel great distances in the wasteland. In either case, it was clear there were people in the Atlanta region. His goal was unchanged by the question of vaults in the region.

In the distance he first saw the few medium-sized buildings that made up the Florence skyline as he made his approach on what was designated Alabama Highway 20. He had seen much larger remnants of architectural derelicts in California and New Vegas, as well as his travel across the continent. In Norman, Philip could see the few tall buildings of Oklahoma City, the old skyscrapers . Oklahoma City had been spared any direct involvement in the Great War, but had turned into an immediate wasteland from the nearby strikes in Texas and Kansas. Its buildings were largely intact, making the city an impressive example of pre-war decadence and futility. Death lived there now, and no one with any sense at all, ventured into Oklahoma City unless they were being paid handsomely to do so. Reports in Norman listed at least thirty tribes of raiders and slavers in the city, each claiming zones of occupation and warring with each other over the rest. Norman had found it easiest to construct a wall around the central establishment and patrol it fiercely to keep intruders out.

Florence also looked to be mostly intact. No wall surrounded the city. His approach was completely unhindered. At various points on the way, he did have a giant ant or two to contend with, but he dispatched them quickly, having decided it was best to keep his throwaway shotgun for such events. The shotgun was now slid into a special pouch for such weapons sewn into the lining of his duster. His .308 rifle was slung over his shoulder. The N99 was tucked safely into his messenger bag and the new .44 was stowed in the holster at his belt, where his old .38 revolver had called home. He felt he was ready for any trouble as he walked into the city.

He paused before entering the more heavily built area of the city and considered the location of the sun. It was getting pretty low and he wasn't sure he wanted to be inside a city building overnight. He looked around at the intersection. A demolished pharmacy sat on one corner and a grocery complex on another. He gave some consideration to the pharmacy as the smaller of the two places and moved to investigate the structure.

Upon entering, he could tell it had been used in the recent past. Shoe marks still cluttered the dusty floor. There were at least two different marks, of different sizes. His best guess was that one was a child. _To be a child in this world now_, he thought. _I can't imagine anything worse. _At least Philip had grown up in a vault with some of the comforts provided. There were overseers and adults whose attention was on the safety of the vault population. This was not to say that everything was a utopian wonderland in the vault; there were crimes, fights, and other breaches of the civil order. However, grievances were always addressed and justice was done for those that suffered. Out in the wasteland, he knew from firsthand experience what passed for justice.

He walked past some empty magazine stalls and into one of the aisles, glancing absently at the shelves to see if anything had been left behind. _Habit_, he thought. _It's not like I need anything right now. _He did see a bottle of some kind of shampoo that no one had ever bothered to grab. He thought about it for a moment and stuffed it into his bag. _You never know when I might actually have time and opportunity to take a shower and wash my hair._

He had reached the end of the aisle and was just about to turn a corner when he heard a shuffle and saw a scamper out of the corner of his eye. His first thought was that it was a radroach, owing to the small size he saw. He pulled the N99 from his bag and flipped the safety. He carefully crept around the direction he saw movement and turned the corner quickly, leveling his gun in front of him.

There was a small child in ragged clothing curled into a shaking ball of fear at the end of the aisle against the wall. The little boy – he could not be sure – let out a small yell and grabbed his own mouth to keep the sound in. Philip stepped back out of his stance and raised both hands above his head to show he was not planning anything violent.

"Don't take me back." he said through stifled sobs.

"Whoa! Hold on kid." Philip said. "Take you back where? I'm not gonna take anyone anywhere."

The child, still crying, looked at him with disbelief.

"That's what the other men said. Then they took me and Miranda and some other people too."

"Who did?" Philip asked.

"The men with the cutting sticks."

"Where did they take you? Did you get away somehow?" Philip asked.

"Into the Block." the child said. The boy had stopped crying at this point, obviously believing that Philip meant him no harm.

Philip had no idea what the Block was, but he was beginning to get a feeling he knew where this story was headed, but wanted to confirm his suspicions.

"Were they slavers?" he asked.

The boy looked at him quizzically, as though he had no idea what Philip had just said.

"Do they put collars on them and make them work?" Philip rephrased the question.

"Uh huh." the boy said. "They make them do lots of stuff."

"How did you get away from them?" Philip asked again.

"When they had us in the cage a storm blew through and the cage fell over. It broke open and I slipped out. I ran a long time with the rain on me. I hid inside a metal hill until they left. Then I came here. Are you sure you aren't gonna take me to them?"

"I'm sure, kid." he said with a smirk.

"Can you help me get my sister out? She is all I have. My folks died a while back and we've been walking for a long time."

"I'm not so sure about that." Philip said. He wasn't very keen on the idea of trying to knock over a slaver station, even if this kid was alone in the world. Slaver's meant business. They were just a tad more sane than raiders; but just a tad.

"Please, mister, please!"

After getting a better look at the kid, Philip could tell more about him. He looked to be about seven or eight years old. His hair was long - it probably had not been cut since whatever happened to the parents had taken place. He wore some ripped and dirty denim pants and a yellowed T-shirt with no logo or other identification on it. His arms were cut and scabbed and his face was extremely dirty.

"How long has it been since you ate?" Philip asked.

"I don't remember." the boy said.

Philip reached into his bag and pulled out a can of Cram. It had a key on the top that allowed the user to roll the top of the can back to get access to the food. Philip quickly opened the can and slid the chunk of meat into his hands. He broke it in half and reached over towards the boy. The boy reached out, losing a lot of his initial fear, and took the meat from Philip's hand. He immediately shoved it into his mouth in large portions. He practically inhaled the food. Philip guessed it had been quite a while since the boy had eaten anything. Philip sat down on the floor and ate his own chunk of meat a little more slowly. When the boy finished chewing, he looked up at Philip. Philip had pity on the child and handed over the portion in his hand as well. He had only taken two bites. The boy devoured this as well.

The boy that looked up at Philip with a little bit of Cram on his fingers and corners of his mouth was a different child than he had first encountered a few minutes ago. Philip tried to restart the conversation.

"How far away are the men who tried to take you?" he asked.

"I don't know. I've never been here until now." The boy answered.

"You said they had 'cutting sticks'?"

"Yeah, long metal sticks, but they cut people with them. I saw them cut an old man's arm off with one. He screamed so loud."

"You can scream pretty loud too, you know?" Philip said, thinking back to his first encounter with the boy.

"Sorry. I thought you were one of them. Are you sure you can't help get my sister back."

"I've been thinking about that." Philip said as he brought his rifle around and showed it to the boy. "Did you see any of these, or anything like them in the camp?"

"I did see one man with something like that. But I don't remember for sure." He said, hopefully.

Philip gave it some consideration. It would waste a lot of ammunition and time to help this little boy out. He might get killed in the process. _Well, isn't that what I came out here to do though – help people?_ Taking a mental stock of his supplies, he decided he would help the boy and do his best to get rid of the slave camp. He would need to scout the area out, and it was now dark. Philip decided to wait until morning and get the boy to come with him.

"We'll try." Philip told the boy. "But no promises. I'll do what I can, but there may be too many of them. Understand?"

"Sure. Thanks, mister."

"Name's Philip. What's yours"

"My name is Bobby and my sister is Miranda. She's always nice, you'll be glad you helped us." Bobby said.

_I sure hope so, _Philip thought as he settled in for the night. It was going to be a long day tomorrow.


End file.
